I step in the room and stop in surprise. It's been almost 6 months since I was last here, and even though I know Ms. Martin no longer teaches here, I'm still surprised by what I find. Gone are the countless posters of Greek and Latin myths. Gone are the innacurate maps of the Mediterranean. Now the walls lie bare, and the lights are dimmed to the throbbing of rap music. In Ms. Martin's old desk sits a stranger. He doesn't even notice me and never turns away from the computer screen he is looking at.

Embarrassed and anxious not to get into any awkward situations, I turn to leave. Yet right then the memories come rushing back and I halt in nostalgia. I remember the tired mornings and florescent lighting. The searing headaches that came from who knows where, and also the groans of dissapointment whenever we were assigned a translation assignment. The only thing more common than our constant moaning and complaining was probably our desperate pleas for a movie day. I remember the friends that I met in that class, Anna, Jackie, and poor poor Jason. I breathe in, nostalgic at the damp, musty feel of the air. The years I have spent in this room are a part of me, for good or bad. Honestly, most were neither, although many were boring. I can count the time I've spent in that room, but I can't count the time I have spent staring at the green marker slash that permanently stains the projecter screen. Nor can I count the time that I've spent following the lines of the beige brick walls.

That old room in the southwest corner of the school was one of the most magical places of my short life. It had the singular ability of stopping time, a power I hated with a passion. But even as I snap out of my brief reverie, I realize that I don't really regret it. I quietly back out of the room unnoticed, and close the door on a chapter of my life.